Preparations for the oncoming battle were coming along nicely. Large holes were dug into the earth and filled with waste and corpses, comrade or enemy.

Stromund, being a former commander, was with Alyssa almost around the clock. They sat at the planning table, creating and perfecting the plan that would hopefully lead them to victory.

Henry was basically always training, sometimes by himself and sometimes with the soldiers. He could also be seen acquainting himself with the soldiers, sharing drinks and overall raising morale back to acceptable levels.

As for Malt, he was also training, albeit not the same way Henry was. Having never held a weapon he had to start from the basics of combat.

Malt was clad in a strange, thick coat and wore a helmet that resembled a metal hat more than anything. In one hand he held a spear and in the other, a large shield.

The coat was in fact an armor called gambeson. Although made of different types of fabric, it protected well against cuts and blunt trauma. The helm was a kettle, a common helmet that ensured a hit to the head wouldn’t always be lethal.

Situated a few feet in front of him was Geld, who had one of his curved swords drawn. With no one experienced enough left to instruct Malt, he was practically thrown the job.

“Keep that shield up at all times, even when attacking. As a newbie, your job is to not die. Hiding behind a shield is the best way to do that.”

Malt nodded, internalizing the information. He was a bit afraid, honestly. Just standing in front of Geld put him on edge and the armor was surprisingly stuffy, even in the morning chill.

Geld lowered his hips and swept one leg back, entering a battle stance. A confident smirk streaked across his face.

“I’m coming at you now, kid. Try not to get hurt too bad!”

Malt gulped audibly, grasping the handle of his spear.

Geld shot forward, closing the distance between them in a single lunge. His scimitar swung its arc, biting deep into Malt’s shield.

The shield absorbed most of the impact but even so the force was enough to make Malt’s entire arm numb. He stumbled back, loosening his grip on his shield. The shield dipped downward several inches, leaving his face completely exposed.

Geld capitalized on this mistake, smoothly fading into another swing that stopped millimeters from Malt’s throat.

Malt immediately halted, not daring to move a muscle.

“See what happens when you drop your shield?”

He nodded slightly, obviously scared.

Geld backed off several feet before taking a combat stance again.

“I’m comin’ at you again kid. Remember what I said this time, yeah?”

He lunged again, this time even faster. The blade struck, leaving Malt’s arm even more sore than before but he held fast, not daring to loosen his grip.

After that came a flurry of blows, one after the other. Each was just as powerful if not more powerful than the last. Malt was stumbling backward, not able to withstand the barrage.

Suddenly, he felt himself lose his footing on the uneven earth. His body hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs.

“What was that, huh? How’re you gonna fight if you can’t even walk?”

Malt scrambled onto his feet, still gasping for air. Geld’s mouth tugged into another overconfident grin. Malt grimaced, biting his lip.

He knew Geld was doing his job, but that smile, that smile was simply infuriating. The little snide remarks and passive aggressive comments he snuck in during training was getting on his nerves. Malt always considered himself a good kid, always respecting his teachers and elders. He’d always responded to any hostility with an apology; safety was more important than pride after all.

Maybe it was the situation he was in. Sleeping in the mud and eating gruel didn’t exactly improve his mood. Maybe it was the regret he felt for coming to the front in the first place. The reason didn’t particularly matter, all that mattered was that he was willing to hurt Geld at that moment.

Geld readied his scimitar again, preparing to lunge again. Curiously, Malt did the same.

Geld launched forward again, striking in the same manner he had before. Malt also pushed forward, not allowing the veteran to gain any ground.

Surprisingly, Geld was actually the one being pushed back this time. All seemed to be going well for Malt until the swings stopped. To his horror, he realised that Geld's hand was already grasping the top of his shield.

With one inhumanly strong heave, he jerked the shield to the side. Malt’s unbalanced body followed, arm still attached to the bulwark.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Before Malt could process what had happened, Geld booted him square in the chest.

The impact was violent and abrupt, so much so that he was thrown several feet away. The shield was still in Geld's hand, the leather strips fastening it to Malt’s arm having been torn clean off.

He laid there, coughing up saliva, mud, and traces of blood. After he regained a bit of his composure, he called out to Geld.

“The fuck was that? You tryin’ to kill me?!”

The man threw the broken shield to the side and started making his way toward Malt.

The grin on his face warped into something much more sinister, dangerous almost. Faint bloodlust emanated from within his eyes.

“Huh? You daft, kid? What do you think the enemy’s job is?”

He brandished his blade, creeping ever so closer.

It was clear to Malt now. If he didn’t fight back right now, he’d be hurt for real. He felt a real sense of danger, like some wild beast was about to pounce on him.

In a desperate attempt to ward the beast off, he grasped his spear and brought it behind his back. Using all the strength in his body, he flung the spear in Geld’s general direction.

The spear didn’t fly true. It was poorly aligned and wasn’t nearly fast enough to strike Geld, let alone do any real damage. With one flick of his blade, he sent the spear flying off into the distance.

Geld squinted his eyes in frustration, obviously annoyed by the feeble attack.

“Tch, you that desperate? Throwing both your weapon and shield away, you’re as good as de-”

Before he knew it, Malt was right in front of him.

The boy slammed into him, bringing them both to the ground. While Geld was still surprised, Malt smashed his fist into the man’s face. It was a fierce blow, fueled by anger and desperation. A hit like that could’ve definitely broken something, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was winning this fight.

He brought his fist up, ready for another strike. Just before his fist connected, Geld extended his arm, grasping the fist.

Before Malt could retaliate, he bashed his forhead against the boy’s nose. Cringing, Malt rolled off, clutching his nose with both hands.

Geld jumped to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the punch he’d received. He walked over to the spear and picked up before walking back over to Malt, who was still curled up in the mud.

He threw the spear down in front of Malt.

“Wasn’t expecting that one, not gonna lie. It’s good to see that you have at least some fight in you.”

He nudged the spear closer to Malt with his foot.

“Don’t tell me thats all you got, kid. I can promise you that the enemy’s going to do much worse to you if you lose.”

Malt glared at the man, seething. He grabbed the spear, grasping it with white knuckles. Using it as a cane, he propped himself back onto his feet, blood still dribbling from his nose.

“Like hell I’d just sit down and take it, bastard.”

Geld’s face twisted into a smirk.

“Ooh, good response. Looks like you’re at least worth the effort.”

They entered battle stances again, ready to lunge at one another once again.

***

Alyssa and Stromund stood around the planning table. There were documents spread about, but they were hardly paying attention to them.

Their gazes were focusing instead on the two men fighting several meters away. It was quite unsightly. They rolled about the mud, wrestling and trying to gain dominance over one another. Sometimes crossing blades, other times trading fists.

Alyssa was obviously concerned. She knew it was necessary to train the newcomer, but this was taking it a little too far. In the past few days, Malt had changed slightly, for the better or worse.

Granted, they hadn’t talked much, only greetings and polite conversation, but the change was still evident. Physically, he was starting to “roughen up.”

His once fair skin was now covered in scratches, bruises, and grime. Although he was still trying to maintain his hair to some degree, it was largely frayed and messy now.

He didn’t grow visibly more muscular. This was to be expected considering that he’d only been going through this training for three days, albeit from dawn to dusk.

The most noticeable change was the shift in his personality. He was still largely the same, but the small alterations in his speech and mannerisms were still noticeable.

For example, he didn’t speak as much as he did when he first came. Maybe it was due to exhaustion, but he also tended to respond in a concise way. His speech was less stiff and more casual.

Alyssa bit her lip slightly,

“...don’t you think that’s a little much, Sir Stromund? I think Sir Gelds’ getting a little too intense...”

Stromund slicked his hair back, sighing.

“This might seem a little cruel, but Malt is weak. Seriously weak. Even by newbie standards. If we want him to survive the next battle, he’s going to have to...well, change, if you catch me drift.”

She tilted her head, not getting the message.

Stromund’s eyes got serious for a moment.

“You’ve seen it, yes? The way veterans seem almost...excited, about killing the enemy.”

She gulped, hesitantly nodding her head.

“There’s a certain amount of anger or fear that needs to exist before someone works up the will to take a human life. We need to get him to that point. To make him irritated enough, or...for lack of a better term, violent enough, to take a life.”

Alyssa had known vaguely that this was true. She’d heard the previous commander give his speeches, speeches meant to rile the soldiers into almost a trance. A state where their only thoughts were to kill the enemy, a state where the enemy was dehumanized.

All to make killing more palatable.

Stromund furrowed his brows,

“I know how you feel, though. Soldiers usually take at least a month to go through this process.”

“Then why don’t we just let him sit this fight through then?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“This very well might be the last battle on this front. We need all the manpower we can get.”

Seeing that she was still concerned, he patted her lightly on the back.

“Don’t worry about it too much, it was a choice he made himself, as a man. I’m sure he'll be content with his decision.”

He gave her a cheerful smile, which she couldn’t help but return.

“...if you say so. Let’s just hope that he’ll be battle ready by the time the push comes.”

He nodded in agreement.

“It’s the best we can hope for, at this point."